NO MEAN CITY

I have written about the flora and fauna of our recent holiday. Let me now turn to the people – do they come under ‘fauna’, I wonder?

We were travelling with Joanna, Lawrence and our grandchildren, and therefore we were obliged to go within the school holidays. It was a great pleasure being there with them. Lawrence and John golfed; Joanna and I chatted, had coffee, shared cooking; Alexandra read, undisturbed; and the younger girls ate their meals with us and then cleared off the entire day to play with a gang of other children on the beach. I had gone with English and craft projects for the girls; John had planned waterborne activities. None of this was required: they had far more exciting companions than elderly grandparents! So it was definitely well worth the price we paid which was that we were away during the ‘Glasgow Fair’ – traditionally a time when the great industrial companies had their annual holidays, and which still seems to be when Glaswegians take their holidays although those industries are no longer present. My idea of a busy site is that I can see, about 12 stations away, another family in both directions so you will appreciate that to have the site absolutely full, with people being turned away and the resultant press of people at the local sights or sports points is not my ideal situation.

I should make haste to point out that the collective crowd did not produce the type of person who was ahead of us in the queue for a boat on the Norfolk Broads on the latter part of our holiday on our way home. This lady, who sounded as if she came from some part of the Midlands was a kindly soul, a nice person I’m sure; she fell into conversation with a little boy beside her and his mother. She had a grating accent and no volume control. She noticed that the boy was blonde haired but brown eyed; his mother remarked that his father was dark haired, and this brought forth a torrent of conversation about the likelihood of having brown eyes and blonde hair, and whether the blonde hair would survive into adulthood. The lady considered the fairness or otherwise of herself and her brother; her four children; her ten grandchildren; her brother’s children. She could (and did) detail the exact colour of each person’s eyes and hair, (Now Robin has blue eyes, but paler than Tracy’s…) at what age the blondeness had ceased; what degree of darkness their hair now boasted. I was just coming to screaming point – who cared what colour any of their hair was? – when the boat fortunately began loading and she drifted out of earshot. I was reminded of an excruciating evening I had passed some years ago when a woman monopolised the conversation to tell each new arrival of a minor road accident which had happened to her grown up son, in which she began with what she had given him for breakfast, and traced his journey village by village to the actual incident, how long it had taken the police to arrive; no detail too small, while I reflected that this could easily have been summed up in ‘Bobby had a driving accident but he’s OK’.

Your Glaswegian is not garrulous like this.

Glasgow has a reputation (not entirely undeserved) for drunken violence and it is certainly a city where you have to have your wits about you at certain times. As a theatre audience for example it has a fearsome reputation and takes no prisoners.

But on the other hand, if you pass muster with them and they accept you, there is no finer body of people. The men may have scars on their faces from fights they have fought in their youth, but they are gentlemen in the best sense of the word; and the women, though they can be fierce celtic viragos sometimes are also bighearted and generous.

So here we are on this site, full to the gunnels. Clearly they did accept us, for it was like belonging to a large family group. Arriving families would check in as it were with their neighbours, and exchange brief information about who they were, where they came from, how long they were staying, (no intrusive questions asked) and then go off about their own business. When it came to putting up awnings in the ever present wind, help would materialise as if by magic and set about the anchoring of the flapping sides unasked. Services we ourselves rendered to others included charging phones for people with tents and no electricity; the usual help with awnings; we lent our whirligig to a lady with too much washing, putting it up for her in their area; they returned it to our section and put it up; we saved our old 1pound coins and exchanged them with people who needed them to use washing machines; we kept an eye on other people’s children on the shore line as well as our own. When we left we had bought a new larger kettle, and we donated our old one to the communal kitchen so that people camping could have tea two at a time. We also donated our magazines and books. Everyone else was doing much the same.

It made you tolerant of the occasional late night party (nothing exceptional, just people drinking and laughing together) – it was still quite light at 11 pm and dawn was at 3 am!) and you felt protected and comfortable in this body of people.

I myself am not a daughter of the city of Glasgow and have never been mistaken for one. But I would regard it as an honour to be so counted.

As the verse says, Wha’s like us? (However, the answer is, Gey few, and they’re a’ deid.)

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About adhocannie
I am a good natured woman with a long memory and a swift tongue. I like loooking at things and thinking about them. Also food, clothes, travel, reading, sewing. I try to see the ridiculous in things, but sobriety of reflection keeps edgting in. I have husband, children, grandchildren, friends... I feel rich in things that matter. I am a happy exile. I like writing. I do not like talking about me (though I do.). You willl be much more interesting.

2 Responses to NO MEAN CITY

  1. Jack Paterson says:

    Thank you for these complimentary (more or less) comments about Glaswegians. I would glad nominate yourself as an ‘honorary Glaswegian’ anytime!

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